The First San Andreas War
by Wedgininja06
Summary: After years of civil unrest in the island state of San Andreas, the state government creates a law enforcement agency to help contain and protect the safety of the public. Little do they know, after 50 years of changes and additions to the main mission of the agency, the so called "ISA" would be the main military fighting force of the state, soon facing it's greatest challenge.
1. Chapter 1

Just off the coast of California, lies a small island home to thousands of residents. This island is known as the state of San Andreas, recognized for it's contributions to the movie industry, as well as its addition to the worlds greatest military's. Over the course of just forty years, the small state of San Andreas would participate in one of the worlds most well known mini-wars history would ever record. It would be recognized as the First San Andreas War, and the story begins here.

Our story begins (quite obviously) in the small island state of San Andreas. More specifically, with the national guard of the state. Now, San Andreas is in many ways different from the other states, even the distant ones like Hawaii and Alaska, in regards to it's law enforcement agencies. Lets wind the clock back to the year 1953 to get a good feel for our setting shall we?

In 1953 San Andreas was recuperating from the strain of military occupation during World War Two, having been used temporarily as a staging point for U.S Air force bombing and strategic attacks on the Japanese islands and the mainland of Japan itself. The small state had been home to many wartime factories, most of which had capitalized on the flood of government contracts given out to companies for essential wartime products. The main industry during the war, was steel. Over one hundred automotive plants and shops swapped out their car making machines for high quality steel plate, turning out thousands of tons over a span of six years. But the problem arises after the wars end, when business tapers down and most of these plants are forced to shut down, leaving many without work.

By 1953 the people were angry, demanding that the state government urge companies to stake a claim in the state and lower the taxes on steel so the remaining companies could hire more workers. When the government did next to nothing, the people resorted to rioting and protesting to light a fire under the figurative ass of the poorly functioning state government. Soon, the LSPD was overwhelmed and could not spread enough men across the state to uphold the law, leading the government to pander to the United States Marines stationed in the nearby Fort Zancudo. Upon approval, three small groups of Marines took to the streets to quell the riots, but the presence of armed military personnel only angered the public more. Firefights broke out between the soldiers and Second Amendment touting citizens, all the way up until June of 1954 when the state government agreed to urge businesses to set up shop, as well as offering support to newly started companies.

Satisfied, the riots slowly bubbled down until peace had been restored and the Marines were sent back to their base with much thanks from the state government. But things weren't over yet, in fact the lack of ability to cope with these types of situations led the state government to launch a program for a type of national guard, as the state's guard was little more than an average police officer in a different uniform with a bigger gun. This program, called "Defense Bill number 14" would permit the creation of an agency to tackle the problems of large scale civil unrest, as well as to deal with gang related terror that had plagued the state since the early twenties. The new agency birthed from this bill would at first be called the "Inner-state Security Agency" or ISA for short. These men, compiled of ex soldiers and police officers, was tasked with maintaining the state's safety on a larger scale than the LSPD, FIB, or IAA. On June the 17th, 1954, the ISA took to the streets for the first time.

But there was a problem. These poorly trained and even more poorly armed men were just not fit for duty, often being pushed around by criminals and gang organizations with little to no respect or fear from anybody. To solve this problem, the state government turned to the newly created automotive customs shop, Tribal Die. Since 1945 Tribal Die had been customizing and repairing vehicles around the state, growing in size steadily and showing it's capability for expansion. The ISA was the opportunity, with millions of dollars being offered for the company to sell and maintain a large fleet of customized cars. This opportunity would no doubt launch Tribal Die into the top ranks with many other San Andreas based companies, with even more chances to expand into the automotive steel and die cast business as well as the weapons business not far down the road. But founder and CEO Michael Schmidt time and time again refused the offer, even as the bid went up. In fact, the final bid would be lower than the highest bid that had been previously offered. Thankfully for the ISA, Michael's son eventually talked him into accepting the contract. Soon, Tribal Die was armoring, painting, tuning, and servicing a fleet of one hundred and fifty cars and trucks.

The government would later make more contracts with other companies, providing better quality weapons to the agency, and classes were created after months of research and assistance from local Marines and police to create a top notch training program. By the end of 1955, the ISA was more than well equipped to fight crime in the state, and would continue to do so for may years to come.

Now it's the year 2004, and the ISA has more officers than ever before. Their force exceeds that of the local police, FIB, and IAA combined. In terms of overall firepower the ISA had it's very own air force, as well as tanks, armored squad and interceptor vehicles, riot control trucks and troop transport trucks. All of these provided by the now global company, Tribal Die, which had advanced to producing the weapons, as well as vehicles and research for these things for the ISA. The agency had earned the title of official National Guard, without being changed or named under it. Though the name was different from the name of the 1950's, as the recent terrorist attacks on the mainland U.S had shown any city with tall buildings or even small buildings could be subject to attacks. In April of 2002, the ISA was officially renamed "The San Andreas Anti-Terrorism and Gang Authority". But most people continued to use the now dated acronym "ISA" as an easier alternative to the long name it now bore. Yes the ISA was a military through and through, and would soon face its largest challenge yet, squaring off against another nation of similar size.

 **Hope you guys enjoyed this exposition to my new story. I've been writing it as a whole on my computer, so its gotten pretty complicated in the way of needing at least some exposition to get you guys acquainted with the basic plot line. I can't say when exactly, but I will be posting the beginning of the actual story some time soon. If you're into military stuff I'm sure you'll like it, but I've written it in a specific way for non enthusiasts to be able to enjoy without getting lost in military lingo and complicated plot lines.**

 **More to come!**

 **-Wedgininja06**


	2. Chapter 2

The airport's emergency siren winds up to it's maximum volume, the ear piercing noise echoing for miles around. Being near the epicenter, I jolt awake and look around the barracks. As my eyes adjust, I see the men around me frantically gearing up.

"Langst! Get your ass in gear, we're under attack!"

One man yells to me whilst putting on his kevlar. Following orders, I leap out of my bunk and fumble the lock on my foot locker. 17-4-33, and the lock clicks open. Almost panicking, I throw the lock aside and toss my gear onto the bed. With my adrenaline pumping, I put on my combat pants, shirt, armor, ammo vest, socks, and boots within a mere three minutes.

Quickly, I unhook my rifle from my bedpost and run towards the door. Standing there is Gunny Joseph, who is tossing men magazines as they rush out the door. I try to ask him about what's going on, but he simply tosses me four magazines and tells me "Get out there!"

Catching the door before it shuts again, I rush out the door and slide the magazine into my rifle. Looking around, the normally calm airport is overcrowded with tanks, anti aircraft guns, and planes on fire. I would later learn that they had been destroyed before takeoff.

In the sky, whatever planes we had left were zipping around and dodging machine gun and rocket fire from enemy planes. To my right, men are rushing onto the beachhead to return fire against the great many landing craft sailing onto their positions. "Incoming!" Yells someone from behind me, prompting me to hit the ground and cover my head.

Moments after, the ground shakes with the force of hundreds of tiny bombs impacting the surface runways on the south end of the airport. Bits of rubble and other debris fly all around, landing near me but not on me. Thankfully. Peeking up, I just manage to see seven bomber planes disappearing into the horizon while even more approach us.

These planes aren't so lucky though, and the advanced SAM missiles of the airport rocket into the sky with loud "SHOOM!"s. Most of them find their mark somewhere on the planes, sending them crashing into the ocean or the eastern sea wall of the airport.

Realizing that this whole time I've just been lying here, I jump to my feet and sprint towards the beachhead to join the fight. I get there quickly, and dive onto my stomach to avoid the machine gun fire being put out from boats just off the shoreline. Shaking a bit, I pull the bolt of my rifle back and begin firing at the landing crafts rapidly approaching the beach. The men inside are hunkered down, making a good shot impossible. But I fire any way, sending three round bursts of 556mm rounds into the boats.

Like I said, it proves ineffective, and the first of the boats reaches the shore. The ramp drops quickly, and the men inside are met with a wall of machine gun fire. None of them get out alive, but next to it on both sides more boats have landed and dropped their ramps. With this spread out of men, a few manage to take cover in the water and return fire at us, each round sending small divots of sand into the air all around us.

I line up as many shots as I can, using the green helmets of the enemy as targets to line up between the iron sights of my rifle. But even with all of us laying down fire, they continue to land and slowly build up a force taking cover behind the landing craft.

Click.

My rifle defies me, telling me that my ammo is spent and that I can fire no more. "Spare mag?!" I yell in no general direction. "

"Langst, here!" Says a nearby soldier, tossing me a single magazine. It hits the sand next to me, filling the empty spaces between rounds with grit. I bang it against the side of my rifle before clicking it in and returning the fire to my enemy. But soon enough, it clicks again.

ZIP!

I hear a round meet its mark to my right, and find a soldier lying face down in the sand. Doing my best not to throw up, I take his rifle and loot his spare magazines. But before I can begin firing again, I hear someone yelling behind me, accompanied by the sound of large jet engines. I soon hear what he is saying.

"Get off the beach! We've got incoming, get off the fucking beach!" He yells while running along behind our lines. Realizing the danger, I turn and burn as quickly as I can, my feet digging into the loose sand and nearly tripping me with every step.

Just as I get away from the beach, the bombers release and deliver their explosive payload onto the row of hangars and the beachhead on the western portion of the airport. The concussion of the blast at such a short distance throws me onto my face, sending both rifles and my spare ammo flying across the ground into the cloud of dust I'm now enveloped in.


	3. Chapter 3

Encased in the smoke, I shield my eyes and attempt to look around. I see nothing, aside from my very battered and scratched hands. Still dizzy, I grope around on the tarmac in search of my weapons and ammo. After about a minute, I find a single magazine and not long after, the rifle itself. About the time I find it and wipe my eyes, the cloud of dust begins to clear enough for me to see the remaining men on the beach falling back.

One by one they fall, their returned fire being seemingly in vain. Scared for my life, I scramble to my feet and book as fast as I can from the scene. I don't get far before I run into a soldier, coming in the opposite direction.

"Hey, you!" He yells.

I say nothing, but stop running and face him.

"Get to the northeast gate, we're pulling out and cutting our losses until reinforcements can group up. Spread it!" He says, not allowing time for me to respond before dashing away. Extatic, I sprint towards the exit and ignore the sounds of gunfire behind me. Despite this mad dashing for my life, I feel a pang of regret as I realize what I'm doing. I slow to a jog to catch my breath, leaving me more brain power to feel bad about my decisions.

Some soldier I am, I simply ran for my life while the others are still back there fighting to hold the lines. Even if it is fruitless in the end. No matter, I'm already at the gates and... "Wait! Wait!" I yell, watching the trucks pull away from me. The men in the back simply look at me with detached stares, caring as much about me as I did for the others.

"Shit! Fuck! Fuck! No!" I yell, throwing my rifle to the ground and putting my hands on my head. The many others around me are equally disparaged, watching in horror as their only chances of escape from this lost battle drive away at high speeds. Mouth agape and hands still on my head, I take a good look at the scene unfolding at the other side of the airport. Most of the dust has cleared, giving way to a scene of seemingly stereotypical acts of heroism. Men are scattered all around, firing at an enemy that has taken control of the beachhead in full.

Maybe this is it. My chance to redeem myself from my previous acts of cowardice. But if I go back, I'm almost sure to be killed. I lower my hands and retrieve my rifle once more. Taking several deep breaths, I nod my head and deceive all the common sense in my brain telling me to just run out of there. Afterall I could just jack a car. No, I took an oath to defend this state...To hell if it's a dumb idea! Fuck it!

"Alright men!" I yell to get the attention of the men standing around me. "Those men have just signed your death warrant! And the way I see it, they signed in pen! So by god, are you gonna die here, standing with your mouth open and magazines full of ammo?"

They look at me, unsure.

"Think about your family's men!" I say, trying to earn their trust. "What are they to say when someone asks how you went out, if you die while trying to surrender? The decision is yours, but for me, I'm going to go fight until I can't fight anymore." I say, turning up the movie general to 10, turning around and running towards the enemy.

To my surprise, I hear boots pounding behind me. A lot of boots. I smile a bit, and do my best to ignore my brain telling me that leading these men into a battle they cannot win is surely sending me to hell. Whatever, I just hope I go out quickly.

We reach the scattered lines and begin firing, our newly picked up numbers forcing the enemy back a bit and giving the others time to reload and recuperate. I feel a fire in my stomach as I line up shot after shot, spraying rounds all over and killing many. But soon after, my attention is called in another direction.

"Sir!" Someone says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Can you help us with the wounded?" I hesitate a bit, bullets hailing all around me. "Okay. Men, hold this line for as long as you can!" I yell, turning and running to the small group of men huddled in one of the hangars.

The sight is appalling. Blood everywhere, men screaming in agonizing pain. I throw up a little bit in my mouth, but in hopes of not freaking out the poor wounded at my feet I swallow it and spit to the side. "Alright doc, whatta ya need?"

 **So there's some of the actual story for you guys. Obviously there will be much more. If you couldn't tell, the battle is taking place at the airport (LSX) and our sort-of-hero's name is Jonathan Langst. Just fillin' you guys in!**

 **More to come!**

 **Wedgininja06**


	4. Chapter 4

The radio suddenly chimes up, interrupting my current progress I had been making on sealing up a shrapnel wound. "Come in, somebody come in!" The voice says frantically. "I hear you, go ahead." "We're losing too much ground sir, I don't think we can hold them much longer!" He says over the crackling of gunfire.

"Very well, can you at least hold them off until we get the wounded out?" I ask. "Maybe...Just be quick sir." He says, not bothering to say "over" or "out" afterwards. Regardless, I drop the radio and announce to the medical team that we had about five minutes to evacuate the wounded and take them to the rendezvous point upstate. "But sir, we have no vehicles." One man says, sitting propped against a wall.

"Gentlemen, in times like this we must void the law for the protection of ourselves and those around us. I want four guys to get out to the parking garage and bring back four cars. Preferably SUVs if you can get em." I say, then point at four men to go. Without hesitation, they run from the hangar.

"Alright, the rest of us have until they get back to prepare these men for transport. So let's get busy." I say, turning back to the man I had been working on. I carefully wrap his leg wound in a bandage, making sure to place the pin behind the wound and not over top or next to it. "Thank you sir." he says, scooting out of the way so I can assist another man with some kind of damage to his right eye.

"I think I got sand in it..." He tells me, plopping down on the floor with his eye tightly shut. I nod, and grab a nearby water bottle to flush it out with. After some coaxing and wincing, I hold his eye open and douse it with water. Upon further inspection I find it to be irritated, but without any visible signs of cuts or scratches. I tell him that he is good to go, and to take it easy on that eye and to be careful of looking at the sun. Even a little bit.

After I finish with him, the first vehicle pulls up. "Sorry sir, I couldn't get anything other than this sedan." The man says, jumping out and opening all the doors. As he is doing this, a black SUV pulls up. It's a nice one, with gloss black paint, chrome bumpers and large shiny wheels. "What a shame" I think to myself before ordering the worst of the men into it.

We manage to cram four of the wounded into it, and two into the sedan before a truck shows up covered in bullet holes. I have no time to oggle at it though, because the men take charge and swiftly load the back with the wounded. By the time the last vehicle shows up (a minivan taxi) I can see the lines being broken from outside the hangar doors. "Load em up and let's hit it!" I say, assisting a man into the taxi.

"Attention, attention, all soldiers currently engaged with the enemy should work their way out of the airport and to the rendezvous point. I repeat, we are pulling out. Get to the rendezvous point upstate." I say into the radio before climbing onto the bumper of the pickup and sitting on the tailgate. "Copy that, moving towards the exits." A voice says over the radio.

Woosh! A fighter jet zips overhead, visibly damaged and bearing the ISA symbol. As we leave the hangar, I can see that the battle in the air has almost completely ended in favor of the enemy, though a few stragglers continue to fight on. Bullets whiz by, missing my head by what must be inches. I can also see the remaining men making a break for the gates, some even full on sprinting for it. I feel sorry for them as we begin to pass the maintenance hangar.

Thud!

The truck slams over a bump, sending me flying off the back and onto my hands and knees on the blacktop. Thankfully, I managed to catch myself this time, only hurting my knees and palms as opposed to my head like before. It doesn't take long for me to realize what has happened. Once again, fate has shown me the light of salvation from certain death and slammed the door after I get close. But there's no time to dwell on that, because I have to get out of here _right_ now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Here we skip over the beginning-most portion of the story, as complications in my life have shown to keep me from frequently updating this. But I don't want to leave you guys without a full story, and I also don't want to be the only one to ever read all this. So here you go, the rest of the story I had written prior to me joining Fanfiction. At this point, Jonathan has made it to the rendezvous point (the Tribal Die research labs on the east coast. You probably know it as the Humane Labs though.) He is joined by three other soldiers who accompanied him on the journey to the labs, Alex, Sherman, and Dickson.**

 **After Jonathan gets badly wounded and blacks out, the team carries him to the base while avoiding enemy troops that are flooding the state. After arriving, the team tells stories of woe, drumming up the tale of their journey more than they should have. Believing they are elite soldiers, the General on base General Avian sends the team on a mission to intercept a convoy of stolen oil trucks and ISA supplies. Though with some trouble, they complete the task by blowing up a bridge and stopping the convoy effectively. The crew name themselves "Easy Company" after the heroic Airborne group of World War Two. That is where we began again.**

I'm eager for our next task, yet nervous about the large responsibilities that come with it. Since the convoy attack Easy Company has earned a very...unnecessary reputation. Although I can't deny that the men and I did great work on that mission, the attention that's been drawn to us makes me feel that we have to work harder to maintain such a reputation. And I just don't know if the men and I can handle it.

While walking down the hall, I see Dickson standing at a vending machine. "Evening Private Dickson." I say. He turns and smiles "Evening, sir." "Whatcha up to?" I ask, semi interested but eager to talk to the always quiet Private. He looks back at the machine, then at a small pile of coins in his palm. "Well it seems that I'll be a bit short." The coins look as if they were collected from between the barracks sofa cushions, with a great deal of rust and grime coating them. Besides, it was mostly pennies anyway.

Reaching into my cargo pocket, I withdrew my wallet. Somehow I had managed to hold onto it through all the chaos of the last few days, with money intact. Inside it was a few very crumpled bills, my photo I.D, a flash drive, a few business cards, and my debit and credit cards. I ignored the plastic money and went straight for the paper bills. In my hand was four ones, one five, and a very battered twenty. Rarely did I ever keep money on me, but before the attack a new soda machine had been installed in the airport terminal, and I wanted to try all the flavors.

I extended my hand and pressed the bills into his palm, which seemed to surprise him. "Buy as much as you can, and bring it back to the barracks. Oh, and you might want to save some of that for a new pencil, last time I checked yours was getting a little on the small side." He glanced down at the cash, then back at me with a quizzical look on his face. Dickson had always tried to be sneaky about his drawings, but Sherman had secured his journal last night, and gave us all a peek at the Dickson's excellent penmanship.

He was the most interesting of all of the guys. With Sherman I knew just who he was, and what he was good at. He used to work for the bomb squad in the LSPD before transferring to the ISA. Alex is the best shot in the group, having been the only one of us to take advanced sniper training and more range time than the other three of us combined. But Dickson, well I don't know much about him. Hell, I don't even know his first name, neither does anyone else as it seems. When I asked, he replied that "It's just Dickson, sorry sir." He sticks to himself, only ever writing in his journal or cleaning his weapon. He isn't the youngest, or the oldest of all of us, he's not great but average with a firearm, he's not out of shape but he's not built like some of the other guys, and he's very neat. Perhaps he has OCD or is just a neat freak.

"Would you like something, sir?" He asked. I shook my head and replied "No thank you, I've never really cared for candy. Goodnight Private." I then walked past him toward the barracks, and heard the noise of the cash being sucked into the machine.

I walked into the barracks to find the usual scene of soldiers playing cards, laying or cleaning their weapons. One of the soldiers stood and saluted. I returned the salute, then he began "Sir, with your permission, I'd like to ask you a question." "Granted, what's on your mind soldier?" I replied. "Well, my friends and I were wondering if...well...if all the rumors are true." He shuffled nervously on his feet, while his friends sat up and looked on with anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, I began; "Well, Easy Company has been tasked with all the covert and tactical missions until our main attack, which has yet to be planned. As you can see after our last mission, a very difficult one mind you, all of us have returned ready to fight again. I'd say that doing that takes some skill. But, we are susceptible to the same things that any other soldier is, and thus should not be given false titles. Keep that in mind next time someone tells you a rumor."

Before anyone could respond, Private Dickson walked in with arms full of candy and chips. In an instant, the men were all over him, stealing away the candy bars, chips and gum for themselves. I smiled, and walked over to my bunk. Although the noise would prevent me from sleeping, and with the nightmares that haunted me every night I wasn't eager to sleep anyways, I laid down and looked at the barracks roof.

I wouldn't say that it was poorly constructed, but the facility was never meant to house such volumes of men. Besides, the enemy kept our guns busy with constant attempts at air raids or artillery attacks. Luckily, our anti aircraft guns were among the best in the world, so the Eurusians and Calrisians won't ever get close enough to drop a bomb. Unless we run out of ammo, which is getting ever closer.

Artillery attacks are another thing though. With all the personnel inside the facility it would be foolish to try and send them out to the enemy to disable the guns. The enemy would be expecting that. So the cannons pounded the base relentlessly, weakening even the strongest steel beams that support the facility. The situation wasn't getting better that's for sure. Yet we still progressed in our plan, some of us didn't even flinch at the impact of an artillery shell anymore.

But the fact still remained that if we didn't do _something_ everything we'd planned for the future would be pointless, as our base of operations would be turned into rubble and smoldering ash for the locals to plant a flag on and declare the war over and out of our favor. Because of this I decided not to sleep, and instead walked out of the barracks and out into the front parking lot.

The outside lights were still on, and the car-less parking lot made the scene even more eerie than the dead silence that accompanied it. Though, it wasn't truly empty. Bits of debris cover the parking lot, and the protective cement barriers that blockaded the road leading to the front gate. Our steel shields that blocked our air conditioners and satellites were showing great wear and tear, though they weren't visibly broken anywhere.

Looking out over the mountains I could see the far off lights of the Ron Wind Farm, and the nextdoor Palmer-Taylor power station. Surprisingly, they continued to provide power to us even though the whole area was under complete enemy control. From what I heard the battle for the power station was one of the fiercest of the war, but of course we were overwhelmed and pushed to our current standing point at the research facility.

In the distance, a volley of explosions rumble, and I quickly run inside for the impending strike. As always, the red lights kick on, and if the air raid siren still worked it would have kicked on as well. The shells impact the facility roof, making dust and crumbling cement fall inward onto the once shiny floors. Looking up at the hole in the ceiling, I can see light poking through a small hole in the very top of the roof.


	6. Chapter 6

Frustrated with the lack of attention to these attacks, I rush over to the General's quarters. When I arrive, I slam my hand into the door, now furious with his actions. Or rather his l _ack_ of actions. He answers frantically "What is it Corporal?!" "Listen to me" I say, growing angrier by the second "What kind of General just sits around and watches his base fall apart, without doing anything about it?" I begin walking toward him, and he backs into the room. "You have not made a single order in the last 24 hours, and yet, we've been bombarded over 30 times! This facility is crumbling above us, and yet you sit in your office staring at these stupid maps!" I fling my hand across the table, sending the maps flying across the room. "Corporal, your way out of line." He says, now backed against the wall. "I don't care! The stupid rules of the ISA don't apply when 90% of them are dead, and the rest of them are holed up in a crumbling research lab, doing nothing about the enemy who's ready to kick in the door at any moment!"

He looks around the room, with maps scattered all over the floor, and me right in his face seething with anger. "What do you want me to do?" He asks. "Make. Things. Happen." I say to him. "Having the rank of General does not automatically get you respect, and sitting in an office complaining about our losses doesn't help either. General, either you do something about all this" I say, gesturing out the door. "Or I will. So what's it gonna be?" He looks around, then steps aside and starts to pick up his maps. I can feel my eye twitching. "Unbelievable." I say, then storm out.

I'm walking swiftly and angrily toward the barracks. The men in the hallway look at me while I do it, some even try to stop me. I push them out of the way, and enter the barracks door. "Easy company, Front and center!" They scramble out of their beds to attention in front of me. "Look men, these artillery strikes are ruining the facility. There is a fucking hole in the roof down the hallway for christs sake. And we can't win this war without a place to stay. Besides, there is more research here than we could ever hope to replace. General Avian has been absolutely no help to us, so I'm gonna do something now. Who's up for a mission?"

They all raise their hands in a show of agreement. "Alrighty then. Gear up, we leave to take out those guns at..." I check my watch. 8:30 pm. "Nine o clock. I want us out the door by nine o clock. Understood?" "Sir yes sir!" They chime, then run to their bunks to grab their armor. I do the same, and suit up in full gear then run to the armory to fetch ammo for the mission. The stocks are still relatively high, as next to no missions had been performed from the facility yet. I grab a cardboard box and dump it's contents onto the armory floor, then fill it with magazines and grenades. I then rush back to the barracks just in time to find the squad ready to go.

"Here." I say, tossing magazines at the squad. "Fill your vests with them, we don't know what we're up against here, so we'd better be prepared. Sherman, take these grenades. You've proved yourself to be decisive with explosives, so I'm trusting you with next to all of these." "Thank you sir." He says while loading up his belt with the grenades. "Private Alex, you're gonna be our eyes. When we get out there I want you up on top of the hill watching us through a scope. Anything suspicious gets reported in. Got it?" "Yes sir!" He says. "Dickson, you're my right hand man on this mission. You and I will be the main riflemen confronting the enemy, so keep your eyes peeled. I'll watch your back, you watch mine." "Sir yes sir!" "Sherman will be with us too, but I want him to focus on destroying their ammo storage with the grenades. Is everyone clear on their objective?" "Sir yes sir!" They chime in. "Good, then lets get going."

We walk out the door at one minute past nine, into the eeriness of the parking lot. We circle around the back of the facility onto the beaches, where Private Alex splits up from us and begins his trek to the top of the south mountain. The rest of us hug the mountainside, and walk at pace toward the believed location of the guns. "Ready up here sir." Private Alex says over the radio. "Good, do you have a visual on the artillery site?" I ask him. "Yes sir, its fairly un guarded. In fact, it seems like all the men are focused on the guns. Besides, there's only three of em." "Three?" I say out loud. "They've been tricking us, sir." Private Sherman says. I snap back into reality, and push the talk button on the radio "Keep your scope on them, I'll tell you when we're in position." "Copy that." He says.

Soon enough we round the side of the mountain, and move into the field where the artillery guns were located. Sure enough, only three guns are set up in the field, with a few men spread around it doing basically nothing. "In position, be ready to provide cover fire." I say into the radio. "Copy that, standing by to provide covering fire." Private Alex responds. I look to Dickson and Sherman, who are surveying the field. "Alright boys, lets hit em fast and hit em hard. Sherman, only wreck those ammo caches if you have to, we might have use for them. On my mark, ready? Go!"

With that, we're running at the artillery setup. I bring my rifle to my eyes, and begin putting shots in the enemy's direction. Dickson does the same, and Sherman breaks off to get closer to their explosives stores. They begin to fire back, and I see one fall. I grab my radio and yell into it "light em up!" I then hear Private Alex beginning to take shots at the enemy. Once again bring my rifle up to my eyes, and manage to hit one of them. At this point, we're relatively close to the enemy, so I yell for Dickson to hit the dirt. He does, and I soon follow him, flopping onto the overgrown brush of the field.

Now that I'm not running, I better aim my shots. One by one we pick them off, until the few remaining troops throw up their hands in surrender. We move up, and I see Sherman standing with two surrendering Calrisians. Dickson and I stand over the surrendered enemies, and he speaks up "Do you speak english?" One of them shakes his head yes, the others, no. I turn to him; "You are under arrest for attacking an ISA military installation. Do you understand?" "Y...yes.." he says. "You and your friends will come with us. If you do not comply, we are authorized to use lethal force. Tell your friends what I just said."

He tells them, and they all nod in understanding. "Go stand over there." I order them. They all nervously stand, and walk over to where Sherman is standing. "Should we destroy the guns sir?" Private Alex asks over the radio. "No. We'll leave them here and bring them back, so that we can use them. Let's get these men back to base. Alex, keep your eyes peeled for any surprise visitors." "Yes sir." We walk over to where the Calrisians are standing, and I give them another order.

"You will walk single file, through that valley over there. Any attempt of escape will be met with lethal force." The english speaking Calrisian translates for us, and they line up single file, facing the valley. "Alright boys, lets get these men back to base. Don't be rude, they're just as scared as you boys were when the airport was seized." They nod, and we begin walking back to base.

After about 30 minutes of walking, we arrive at the perimeter of the base. At this point, Private Alex joins back up with us. "Good to see you guys." He says. Our prisoners survey the damage they did, or perhaps they were just surveying the massive size of the base. We guide them over the concrete barriers at the gate, and walk towards the front door of the base. We're met with a group of soldiers out front, who handcuff the prisoners and take them inside. General Avian walks out to greet us.

"Excellent work gentlemen. I trust you destroyed those weapons?" He says. "No sir." I say. "I recommend you send a squad out to commandeer those weapons. God knows we could use them." "Corporal langst, your orders were to destroy those guns." "My orders, sir?" I ask quizzically. The men look at me, unaware of the Generals and my talk before our mission. "Sir I don't remember you giving me any orders. I just remember you looking at your stupid maps." I say to him, the anger I had felt earlier now beginning to dawn back on me.

"Corporal Langst, I am ordering you to go back and destroy those guns, and any back talk will be dealt with summarily." I'm furious now, my hands gripped tight into fists, ready to hit him and end my ISA career early. Still thinking about my anger, I don't realize that I hadn't agreed to his order yet. So he says "Corporal Langst, you have your orders. Dismissed."


	7. Chapter 7

I hit him hard. Right square in the face. My rage induced violence doesn't end at one punch though, my fists flare at him, and I get several good hits at him before the squad pulls me off of him. "Sir, calm down sir!" Private Sherman yells at me, holding my right arm down. "Relax Corporal, jesus!" Private Alex says to me, holding down my left arm. Soldiers rush out the door and onto the scene, medics dropping to the ground to care for the battered General.

"Corporal Langst what did you do!?" Sergeant Vermona asks me. My blood still boils, so I answer him; "I put him in his place." He looks daggers at me, then says "Corporal Langst, you are under arrest for assaulting military personnel." I'm quick to retort "He was no more fit to command soldiers than any other Private in this army. If it was up to him, those artillery guns would still be firing at us! It was my idea to take them out, so that the facility wouldn't be leveled before we could carry out Op Immitis!"

A small crowd has amassed by now, with many of the ISA's soldiers standing in the parking lot, surveying the scene. Sergeant Vermona speaks again; "Lance Corporal Hait, arrest this man." He takes a step toward me, but one of the soldiers behind him puts a hand on his shoulder. Another steps forward, and stands in front of me. Then another, and then another. Soon enough the whole crowd, spare a few men, were standing between me and Sergeant Vermona.

My blind rage turns into awe as I watch the men of the ISA stand up for me, preventing me from being arrested. "I order you men to move!" Sergeant Vermona yells, his face beginning to turn red. One soldier in front speaks up; "Sir, with all due respect, if you want Corporal Langst your gonna have to go through us." He looks at the crowd, "This is mutiny! How could you all betray the ISA at a time like this?!"

Private Dickson steps forward "Sir, General Avian was the traitor. His lack of actions would have gotten us all killed had Corporal Langst not acted with the swiftness and precision that he did. In my opinion sir, General Avian should be the one in trouble right now, not Corporal Langst."

Hooah was the word said by most of the men in the crowd, unanimously agreeing with Dickson. Sergeant Vermona turned to the bloody General "General, did you even have a plan on how to stop the artillery strikes?" General Avian says nothing, and continues to hold a handkerchief to his bloody nose. "I see." He turns to the men again "I'm sorry men, I didn't know how bad of an officer he was. But there's nothing I can do about it, he out ranks me." One man speaks up "He doesn't outrank all of us!" The crowd roars with "Yeahs" and "That's right's".

I step forward, through the crowd. "General Avian, we hereby demote you to... Lance Corporal. All agreed, say I." The crowd agree with "I's". "Then its settled." Private Alex steps up now, and says to the crowd "All in favor of promoting Corporal Langst to General Langst, say I!" Once again, the crowd booms in agreement with each other. "Then its settled, Corporal Langst, you are now promoted to General Langst. I'm sure you'll lead us to victory."

I don't know what to say. Demoting the General was one thing, but I didn't think that they were going to replace him with me! I don't think I can be a General, I hardly earned the rank of Corporal by myself, let alone a General. Who, might I remind you, is the highest holdable rank in all of the ISA. There are other Generals, mind you, but as of today, I'm the only one in the research facility. This means that I'm in the ultimate position of power. I suppose that means that I'm in charge of Operation Immitis now.

"Well sir, what are your first orders as a General?" Private Sherman asks me. I think about this for a second. "Lets get together a permanent defensive team, I want around the clock surveillance and patrols. Now that they don't have us pinned down, I want to keep them back as far from this facility. Easy Company, unfortunately, is gonna have to be void from this guys. But we have an important role in this as well. Every night we will attack the enemy on their fronts, and disable and disrupt them in as many ways possible. If you'd like to apply for the defensive program, see me. Should nobody apply, I'll have to do a lottery."

Over the next few hours I had hundreds of applications. I recruited Easy company to help choose the soldiers, and by the end of the day we had our team. 76 men were assigned to the first night shift, with patrols on the roof of the facility, in front of the doors, and a few men on top of the mountains with high power binoculars. We had multiple reports of Eurusians trying to sneak up and spy on us, and five were gunned down after attempted arrests by our mountain patrolmen.

We were able to get a lot of information out of our prisoners, things like known troop locations, maps with artillery setup locations on it, the status on the airport repairs, and the reputation of Easy Company in the eyes of the enemies. From what we learned, Easy Company was the name that scared troops all over San Andreas. "We feared being killed in our sleep by the stealth men that blew up the bridge and sabotaged our oil trucks." said one. "Rumor has it that Easy Company had agents all over the state, and that they were a team of ruthless killers bound on killing every enemy soldier in the most painful way they could."

It was harsh, and unsettling knowing that the enemy thought of us as savages. When I walked by one of our prisoners, he cowered and looked away. I couldn't stand for this, even though deep down I kind of liked the reputation of being feared universally. I ordered all of the prisoners to line up in the hallway, and for a translator to come with them.

Truth be told, their condition in our care was much better than the condition they had been in when we captured them. They wore orange jumpsuits that had been in the facility for such an occasion as this. They stood like true soldiers, backs straight and hands flat against their sides.

I spoke up when they all arrived; "You men have nothing to be afraid of. And I mean that. It has come to my attention that you men have a very wrong idea of Easy Company. We are not savages, we do not hunt down enemy soldiers in hopes of torturing them. We are a small group assigned to various tasks, that would normally be taken up by the rest of the ISA. But as you know, our forces have dwindled in the last week."

Some of them bowed their heads, so I countered; "No no, none of that. You men were doing your job, and I can't blame you for that." I walked to the first man in line, and asked him "What's your name sir?" After the translator told him, he spoke in Calrisian, his name was "Ivan Fredrickson." I asked him what his rank and purpose was. "Private, assigned to the 55th Artillery battalion. Landed in San Andreas with the 3rd wave of men, and was ordered to shell the facility shortly after the seize of the airport.

I went on and asked every one of them who they were, and what their mission was in San Andreas. Every one of them was assigned to the same artillery battalion, the 55th. Their highest rank was a Sergeant, but they had a rank known as "AT Commander" prior to our attack. He was killed when we attacked their installation though, so Sergeant was the highest rank with us. On a normal day I would have been out ranked by this man, but what happened earlier placed me higher than him.

I shook their hands, then said "You can think of me in any way you wish, but I only want two things from you. I want your respect, and your trust. So allow me to test this trust." I say, then draw my handgun and place it on the floor in front of them. I then stand against the wall with my hands behind my back, waiting to see what happens. They all looked at it, and at me, but no one made any attempt to pick it up. Except the english speaking one, who bent over and held the pistol in his hand.

The nearby soldiers aimed their rifles at him, but I ordered them to stand down. Slowly, he walks up to me and gestures for me to take the weapon. "I believe you dropped this. Sir." He says, handing it to me. I smile and take the weapon from him, and tell them they can leave if they wish. They look at each other, and apparently decide to stay, because they start walking back toward their guards to go back to their holding rooms. "That's an interesting method of earning someone's trust sir." One of the soldiers says, smiling at me.

As much as I would like to learn about our enemy, I don't have the time to do it, so I smile back at the soldier and walk over to my new office to check on the patrols. Pushing the walkie talkie button I say "Ground to DP, come in DP." "Roger that, Ground. DP here." "Everything alright topside?" I ask him. "Yes sir. No signs of incursion." "Good, keep up the good work. Ground out." "Thank you sir, DP out."

I pick up another walkie talkie, this one is labeled MP, for mountain patrol. "Ground to MP, come in MP." "Roger, Ground. MP here." "Status report." "No signs of incursion. But there is some suspicious activity occurring to the southeast." Hm, suspicious activity to the southeast. "Roger that, what kind of suspicious activity." "Higher than usual traffic, possible weapons movement. I've got eyes on them now. Looks like...five trucks in a convoy. One large tanker, two covered flatbeds, and two escort trucks."

Damn it. We'd neutralized any trace of nighttime convoys, but the daytime belonged to them. "Copy that MP, I'll figure something out. Ground out." "Echo that, MP out." I rush out of my office and into the next door officers lounge. They all stand and salute upon my arrival. I dismiss them, and begin speaking. "Alright gentlemen, we've got a problem. The enemy is mobilizing weapons and ammo during the day, but we can't attack them until the night time."

"What's your plan for that, sir?" Sergeant Vermona asks. "I want a squad of men to go out and retrieve those artillery guns. If we can get some shells down on them during the day, Easy Company can beat them down at night. Its gotta be relentless." They look at me for a minute, then Lance Corporal Avian speaks up. "And who is gonna take those cannons if Easy Company isn't gonna?" "We are. Lets go get some keys, we're gonna need some trucks."

In about half an hour the officers are geared up and ready to go. I assign two men to a truck, with me and now Lance Corporal Avian in the same truck. All the artillery guns are equipped with trailer hitches for easy transport, so the plan is to hook up an haul ass out of there. I brief the men on this, then climb into the cab of one of our only few functioning trucks.

It starts, reluctantly, and puffs out black smoke into the air. Nearly all of the trucks on station had some form of damage, and I picked the one with a cracked exhaust pipe. This meant that the truck was going to be very, very loud. LC Avian climbs in, and slams his door shut. I roll my eyes at him, and began driving out of the garage.

The three trucks rumble out of the gates, after a group of soldiers move the concrete dividers out of the way. We drive at speed up the small road that leads out to the highway, careful to watch out for enemy trucks. I drive past the Union Grain factory and turn left on the highway, going down the wrong lane of traffic. It doesn't matter though, as the highway hadn't seen any traffic since the start of the war.

Shortly after we're driving parallel to the field where the artillery guns were. I cut the wheel and rumble across the grass, toward the setup. Thankfully, all the guns remain where they were the other night, so I back up to one of them.

Avian gets out to connect the trailer hitch while I begin loading the ammo into the truck's bed. The shells are heavy but I tough through it, hoping to get them into the truck before the enemy gets wind of what we're doing. Avian finishes hooking the trailer on, and runs over to help me. We struggle with the heavy rounds for about 15 minutes before the truck is full, then go over to help the others. Soon enough all the trucks are full, and we rush back into our trucks, eager to get back to base.


	8. Chapter 8

The rumble of airplanes overhead catches my attention, and I see three large propeller driven T-3 Titans roar toward us. These planes were ISA, but had been commandeered after the airports siege. Unsure of their motives, I call into the base to warn them. "Ground this is Alpha 1, come in Ground!" "Ground here, what's up?" "Man the anti aircraft guns! We've got three bogeys coming in from the west!" "Roger that Alpha one."

The air raid sirens scream to life over the mountains, and the anti aircraft fire begins. Hundreds of tracer rounds fly out from in between the large mountains in the direction of the planes. But they do not swerve, or take any evasive maneuvers at that. Instead they stay on course, taking heavy fire from the high tech anti aircraft gun fire. All of the sudden, the lead plane pitches downward, his nose pointed toward the base.

I pick up the radio again "They're trying to kamikazi you guys, get that plane out of the air!" The fire rate picks up and focuses on the lead plane, lighting it on fire and sending it spiraling into the mountainside. The others point downwards now, screaming toward the base. The guns fire at max capacity, breaking off the wing of one of the planes. It swerves into the plane next to it, and they crash into each other just above the Union grain factory.

The smoke billows high into the air as the guns stop firing. Rocks and debris slide down the mountainside from the first downed plane, followed by a dozen or so violent explosions. "Those must've been the bombs inside." Avian says. Before I can say it, more explosions rock the ground as the payload of the two other planes explodes into the air. Debris and dirt rain down on us, and we run into the trucks. "Let's get outta here!" I yell to the men in the other trucks. They comply, and we slowly pull the weight of the guns and ammo across the field, back onto the highway.

We arrive on scene at the crash site, to find a huge cloud of smoke and a crumbling road. The fire and crash debris block the road, but I know I have to get these guns off the road, and fast. Seeing a break in the fires, I tear into the grass and bust through a guard rail. Pushing the gas pedal to the floor, I fly towards the small gap in the fire. The grass is torn up and the truck bounces over large mounds of turned up dirt.

As the path becomes a hill, the trucks tires begin to dig into the soft earth, slowing us down. I pound on the wheel "C'mon dammit you can do it!" I yell at the truck. The heat of the nearby fire begins to make its way through my open window, but I can take my hands off the wheel to wind it up. Gripping the wheel with all my might and forcing the pedal as far down as it goes, I grit my teeth in preparation for the final moment. The front wheels lift off the ground as we reach the crest of the hill, flames torching the side of the truck. The front wheels meet the paved road as the rear ones struggle to get a grip.

Finally the truck slams back onto the pavement, rattling and banging the whole way back into the parking lot. I drive it into the garage and shut it off, hands shaking as I take them off the steering wheel. "Impressive driving sir!" Avian says, still death gripping the handrail inside the truck's door. I pour myself out the door and meet up with the group of soldiers inside the garage. Tossing them the keys, I say "I think it has a flat."

That night the fires from the plane crash burn brightly. Even though the mountain blocked our view, the orange glow of burning jet fuel and grain filled the night sky. For once the base wasn't quiet, in fact it was quite loud. I had ordered all the mechanics to fix our trucks for the impending offensive, and many were working through the night. It was strange seeing the garage doors wide open, with all the inside light shining onto the dark pavement of the usually poorly lit parking lot.

Our anti aircraft guns were also subject to some attention, as many of them had overheated trying to repel the attack. I don't think anybody was without something to do that night, except me that is. Although that wasn't entirely true, as my job was to supervise and plan out all of the jobs that needed to be done. Meanwhile, the rest of Easy Company was busy setting up the artillery guns in key positions. It killed me not to be with them while they do it, and I begged them to let me come, but they told me that I had more important things to attend to and that I shouldn't worry about small dangerless missions like that.

True as that may be, I hated to leave them alone. I found it strange that I cared for them like children, even though they were fully grown men of war. Sparks fly from the roof as a welder begins to work on patching a hole in the roof with a steel plate salvaged from the plane wreck. Air guns go off inside the garage as the broken and beat up frames of the old Army trucks are repaired to working condition. And far off in the distance, the flames of the plane wreck crackle with seemingly infinite heat. The world was alive around me once again, and the ISA was nearly ready to launch the offensive campaign. But there was still a good bit left to do.

That night a farmer walked onto the base's premises, telling us that "You guys oughta do something soon, because those Eurusians are in full control of the Zancudo base. That's where those planes took off from, because the airport is still in shambles." He then offered his small fleet of single engine propeller planes to us, to which we took them immediately. Those planes were exactly what we needed to spy on the Eurusians, and maybe we could use them as fighter bombers during the offensive.

They were pretty rough though, and four of the six planes hardly ran at all. This meant that I would have to divert some of our mechanics to work on the planes, but there rose another problem. We had no hangar to stash them in. That and we had no runway to launch the planes. Still, I wasn't turning down that offer. A few squads of men went out at night time and wheeled the planes into a nearby field, then covered them in a tarp, sticks and leaves. I'd have to figure that out later.

In the mean time I gave the order to begin shelling the Eurusians, and on the morning of June 17th, we began the constant day bombardment of Eurusian and Calrisian positions around the facility. By June 21st, we had pushed back their lines a whole four and a half miles from the point where they stopped during the initial battles.

But on that day we received devastating news. Bravo Company, the rogue squad that had escaped from the airport in the same fashion as Easy Company, was reportedly destroyed by Calrisian artillery shells and ground troops after a three day battle at the ski lodge on top of Mount Chiliad. This was troublesome, as Bravo Company was supposed to meet up with some of our troops to undertake artillery missions against the Eurusians at Fort Zancudo.

Without them, we had no way of knowing about any planes being launched by the Eurusians at the base, not to mention the fact that the shelling caused landslides down the trails we were supposed to drive up. Now we had no way of disabling the enemy at their principal attack base, meaning that we could get crushed by our own stolen fighter bombers launched from the base. Unsure of what to do, I went to Easy Company for advice.


	9. Chapter 9

"What should I do?" I asked them after explaining the situation. After a few minutes pondering, Dickson spoke up. "What if we take the AA guns off the roof the night before the attack." "I'm listening" "Then we could truck them over to the base, and shoot down any planes that try to take off." "We could also bring some artillery to soften them up." Sherman added. "Yeah, we could hold them back while you guys take the airport, and once you guys get in control and contact the U.S for reinforcements, we can take em out. They just need a place to safely drop troops in." Alex said. "Thank you guys. I can always count on you to get me out of a struggle. In lieu of this, I'm promoting you all to Private First Class. I don't think you're ready to give orders yet, honestly you don't want to. But if you can prove yourselves in that regard, Corporal is yours."

While our engineers got to work torching the AA guns off the roof, our mechanics began to finish repairing all of our trucks. So many even, that we were able to send a few of them out to begin work on the planes. Based on time estimates, I set the official date for the offensive as June 25th. We had about three days to prepare, and we were gonna need every minute of it.

Soldiers and Tribal Die employee's alike ran about the facility with their tasks, gathering supplies, fixing trucks or planes, torching the AA guns and putting them on trailers, getting the meals for the attack day ready, salvaging every bit of the plane wreck that they could, siphoning gas from local gas stations, loading magazines with ammo, and much much more.

I spent the day in my office, looking over the written plans of attack and plotting points on a map. This whole plan was very detailed, but the common soldier didn't know much more than the basic attack plans. For instance, part of the plan is to launch air attacks on the airport. But since we only had a few single engine stunt planes and one crop duster, the attack plan was fitted to our needs. The crop duster would serve as our bomber, under the callsign "ISA 1". The jets that would normally dispense the spray for crop dusting were modified to jet only compressed air. The scientists were able to make small bombs that hooked onto each of the 32 air jets, and the mechanics hooked up a small air compressor to the bottom of the plane. When the bombs were ready to be dropped the pilot would pull a lever, releasing the compressed air into the jets, forcing the bombs to unhook and fall on the enemy. The whole design was on a whiteboard in the barracks.

The other planes, variously colored fixed wing stunt planes, would serve as our fighters. We rigged them up with two .50 caliber machine guns on either of the two wings for defensive and offensive battling. Still these planes would be no match for the high speed and high tech of the enemy fighter jets they would be squaring off against. The solution to this was to place our anti aircraft guns at different locations by the Fort Zancudo military base, where the Eurusians were known to have all their jets, and the ones they stole from us. The airport, hopefully, would still be too damaged to launch any aircraft. If it wasn't we were in some serious trouble.

The rest of us would go in with trucks. Our many now fixed cargo trucks would serve as our battle chariots. Each of us would get 20 ammo magazines, two grenades, one knife, and two days worth of rations. A lot of math went into divvying up all our supplies, luckily we had scientists to do that for us. So all the calculations had been done, it was just up to us to carry out the mission.

I wake up and look directly at the clock, which reads 9:00. It is the day before the mission's set starting point, except it's a bit later time wise. The mission is planned for 7:00 am tomorrow morning, which means that everything that hasn't been done as of yet needs to be done. I suit up in my day clothes, olive drab shorts and shirt, and walk out of the barracks into the long corridor to the front doors of the facility.

I walk out and feel the warmth of the summer sun against my skin, and turn toward the back of the facility. Here the planes sit, taking up space in the parking lot as they are prepped for tomorrow's mission. The mechanics work feverishly on them, piles of tools and parts strewn around each of the planes. The one with the most issues though, was the crop duster. Supposedly built in the 1950's, this machine had more problems than any other vehicle on the lot. A small amount being; it leaks oil, it won't start all the time,it wont stay running, the frame is cracked and broken, the propeller is old and doesn't pitch right, etc... Because of this it was the surrounded by the most mechanics. "Of course." I thought "It had to be the one plane that we need the most."

I walk up to one of the mechanics and ask him "How's it going?" He looks and responds "Better than yesterday, sir. We got it to start, but it won't run without the choke fully on. So we're working on getting the carb out so that we can tune it. With luck, it should be ready for the runway by tonight." "Great!" I say with genuine enthusiasm. "You boys are doing an excellent job, keep up the good work." I then walk out and around the fence to check on the runway.

The back of the facility serves as the drain for all our runoff rainwater, so the ground behind it is eroded into downward sloped beach. The plan was for this to be our runway, after many hours of planning and scheming. The plan was for a winch to be attached to the concrete wall of the facility, and the winch hook will be attached to the rear of the plane. It will then be hoisted as high as possible up the slope, the engine will get up to max speed, and then be released with the hopes of using the downward slope and gravity to help get the plane up to speed in time, and into the air.

The odds of the plane making it into the air are slim to none, so to boost the odds a bit in our favor we made up a two bit ramp at the end of the beach to launch the plane into the air. Hopefully by then it would have achieved the velocity needed to stay in the air. Hopefully.

As I round the corner I see the men securing a pallet of cinder blocks to the winch cable at the bottom of the hill. I walk down and greet them. "Hows it going boys?" I ask them. "Good sir, we're testing the strength of it now." "How much can this thing hold?" I ask him. "Well, it estimates about 4 tons, and this is about 5 tons of cinder blocks. So if it can hold this, it can hold the plane for sure.

He hits the winch button, and the hum of the motor picks up from the top of the hill. Slowly, the pallet drags across the sand, up the hill to the marked line in the dirt at the very top of the hill. It holds firm, thus completing the test of the winch and wall strength. I then walk down to where some of the men are constructing the ramp. "Going alright?" I ask. "Yes sir." One of them says. "Should be done in a few hours. Oh...um...Can I ask you something, sir?" "Go ahead." "Well...Do you think that all this will actually work?" The group all turn to me, including the men working on the winch.

"To be honest, I think that we have a slight chance in hell that all this will work. But, I think that it'd be worth our while to give it our best shot with everything weve got, rather than sit in the base and die or be captured. I know all of this is absurd, what with the crude airforce and the only a few hundred men rushing in on the ground. But it _has_ to work. It has to." All of them stay looking at me, until one of the men on the winch says "Well, we're with you sir. One hundred percent." The rest of them agree with "yeah's" and nods of the head. I then walk back to the garage bay to check on the transportation situation.

Lined along one of the walls are nearly 50 repaired Barracks Utility trucks, with the remaining few still being serviced. Even though they have been repaired, most of them are still pretty rough. Dents and dings in the fenders and rips in the seat weren't on the priority list for us though, only the basic engine functions and frame support. If they could hold troops and run long enough to get the men to the front lines, it was good enough. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that some of these trucks weren't gonna make it any farther than the front gate, let alone the airport.

"Almost good to go?" I ask into the garage bay, non specifically. "Almost." one of the mechanics says, not looking up from his work. Another mechanic speaks up: "Murphy, when you address the General you are to face him." He turns, embarrassed, and salutes me. "Don't worry about it, as long as you get this stuff done, I could care less about the formalities." He nods to me, then turns back to the truck he was working on. In my head, the doubts I had about the attack begin to fade a bit, but my nervousness only grows with each passing hour.


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of us would go in with trucks. Our many now fixed cargo trucks would serve as our battle chariots. Each of us would get 20 ammo magazines, two grenades, one knife, and two days worth of rations. A lot of math went into divvying up all our supplies, luckily we had scientists to do that for us. So all the calculations had been done, it was just up to us to carry out the mission.

I wake up and look directly at the clock, which reads 9:00. It is the day before the mission's set starting point, except it's a bit later time wise. The mission is planned for 7:00 am tomorrow morning, which means that everything that hasn't been done as of yet needs to be done. I suit up in my day clothes, olive drab shorts and shirt, and walk out of the barracks into the long corridor to the front doors of the facility.

I walk out and feel the warmth of the summer sun against my skin, and turn toward the back of the facility. Here the planes sit, taking up space in the parking lot as they are prepped for tomorrow's mission. The mechanics work feverishly on them, piles of tools and parts strewn around each of the planes. The one with the most issues though, was the crop duster. Supposedly built in the 1950's, this machine had more problems than any other vehicle on the lot. A small amount being; it leaks oil, it won't start all the time,it wont stay running, the frame is cracked and broken, the propeller is old and doesn't pitch right, etc... Because of this it was the surrounded by the most mechanics. "Of course." I thought "It had to be the one plane that we need the most."

I walk up to one of the mechanics and ask him "How's it going?" He looks and responds "Better than yesterday, sir. We got it to start, but it won't run without the choke fully on. So we're working on getting the carb out so that we can tune it. With luck, it should be ready for the runway by tonight." "Great!" I say with genuine enthusiasm. "You boys are doing an excellent job, keep up the good work." I then walk out and around the fence to check on the runway.

The back of the facility serves as the drain for all our runoff rainwater, so the ground behind it is eroded into downward sloped beach. The plan was for this to be our runway, after many hours of planning and scheming. The plan was for a winch to be attached to the concrete wall of the facility, and the winch hook will be attached to the rear of the plane. It will then be hoisted as high as possible up the slope, the engine will get up to max speed, and then be released with the hopes of using the downward slope and gravity to help get the plane up to speed in time, and into the air.

The odds of the plane making it into the air are slim to none, so to boost the odds a bit in our favor we made up a two bit ramp at the end of the beach to launch the plane into the air. Hopefully by then it would have achieved the velocity needed to stay in the air. Hopefully.

As I round the corner I see the men securing a pallet of cinder blocks to the winch cable at the bottom of the hill. I walk down and greet them. "Hows it going boys?" I ask them. "Good sir, we're testing the strength of it now." "How much can this thing hold?" I ask him. "Well, it estimates about 4 tons, and this is about 5 tons of cinder blocks. So if it can hold this, it can hold the plane for sure.

He hits the winch button, and the hum of the motor picks up from the top of the hill. Slowly, the pallet drags across the sand, up the hill to the marked line in the dirt at the very top of the hill. It holds firm, thus completing the test of the winch and wall strength. I then walk down to where some of the men are constructing the ramp. "Going alright?" I ask. "Yes sir." One of them says. "Should be done in a few hours. Oh...um...Can I ask you something, sir?" "Go ahead." "Well...Do you think that all this will actually work?" The group all turn to me, including the men working on the winch.

"To be honest, I think that we have a slight chance in hell that all this will work. But, I think that it'd be worth our while to give it our best shot with everything weve got, rather than sit in the base and die or be captured. I know all of this is absurd, what with the crude airforce and the only a few hundred men rushing in on the ground. But it _has_ to work. It has to." All of them stay looking at me, until one of the men on the winch says "Well, we're with you sir. One hundred percent." The rest of them agree with "yeah's" and nods of the head. I then walk back to the garage bay to check on the transportation situation.

Lined along one of the walls are nearly 50 repaired Barracks Utility trucks, with the remaining few still being serviced. Even though they have been repaired, most of them are still pretty rough. Dents and dings in the fenders and rips in the seat weren't on the priority list for us though, only the basic engine functions and frame support. If they could hold troops and run long enough to get the men to the front lines, it was good enough. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that some of these trucks weren't gonna make it any farther than the front gate, let alone the airport.

"Almost good to go?" I ask into the garage bay, non specifically. "Almost." one of the mechanics says, not looking up from his work. Another mechanic speaks up: "Murphy, when you address the General you are to face him." He turns, embarrassed, and salutes me. "Don't worry about it, as long as you get this stuff done, I could care less about the formalities." He nods to me, then turns back to the truck he was working on. In my head, the doubts I had about the attack begin to fade a bit, but my nervousness only grows with each passing hour.

Seven o clock rolls around, and the sun begins to glow red over the horizon. At about that time, I get word that all the trucks have been repaired and fitted with the necessary gear. Not long after that, I'm informed that all the planes have been repaired, and that the slingshot is in working order. Easy company reports to me that all the enemy forces have been repelled back just a bit farther than the Palmer-Taylor power station. At this point, I call off the artillery strikes, and order all personnel to the front parking lot.

The sun is even lower now, as the whole ISA stands in front of me. Taking a breath, I climb on top of one of our trucks and begin to speak. After all, morale is an important thing to have."Gentlemen, this is it. Tomorrow could very well be the last stand for the ISA...make that the last stand for San Andreas. Sure, even if we fail the U.S will take over eventually, but dammit that's not the point. Do you wanna be known as the men who stood by after their homeland was taken over? Who stood by even after their brothers were massacred at the airport?" "Sir no sir!" The crowd booms. "That's what I thought. We'll win this, because we're better than them. This is our home, and we are the ISA. And we will not go out quietly, we will fight to the last man, the last breath and we will not surrender even in the face of death. So help me god, even if there is a knife to my throat, or a gun to my head, I will spit in the face of my enemy, defiant to the end. Would you?" "Sir yes sir!" "God damn right! Who are we?" "The ISA!" "And what are we gonna do?" "Win!" "And how are we gonna do it?" "Any way!"

"That's right. Men, you each have a back pack with your gear at the bottom of your bunks. Your mission forms will tell you where you should be and who you should be with. Are we good?" "Sir yes sir!" "Alright. Report to your bunks and get some sleep, we're gonna need it. Dismissed."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter XI

"The battle"

That night I don't think any of us went to sleep right away, even as tired as some of us were. Still, even though we were awake, no one spoke. No one even murmured to their bunk mates. Not a word would break the silence of the barracks, not even the far off hum of the generators on the roof. In the place of these regular sounds, was eerie, dead silence. Only the occasional cough or sniffle from one of the men would break the quiet.

I decide to break it myself, even though I know I should encourage the men to sleep rather than talk. " Yankee doodle came to town riding on a pony..." As I keep singing, some of the guys begin to sing with me. "He stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.

Father and I went down to camp, Along with Captain Goodin', And there we saw the men and boys, As thick as hasty pudding.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle dandy,

Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy.

And there they'd fife away like fun, And play on cornstalk fiddles, And some had ribbons red as blood, All bound around their middles.

There was Captain Washington Upon a slapping stallion, A-giving orders to his men, I guess there was a million.

We saw a little barrel, too, The heads were made of leather; They knocked upon it with little clubs, And called the folks together.

And then we saw a swamping gun, Large as a log of maple; Upon a deuced little cart, A load for father's cattle.

And every time they shoot it off, It takes a horn of powder; It makes a noise like father's gun,Only a nation louder.

It scared me so I hooked it off, Nor stopped, as I remember, Nor turned about till I got home, Locked up in mother's chamber."

The sound fades away after the last lyric, and the barracks resumes its previous silence. Honestly, I didn't think anyone actually knew the whole lyrics of the song. Even myself, but apparently these men did. It was a good morale boost, even for me. With my spirits high, I pull my covers tight against myself and utter one last sentence before drifting off into a deep sleep. "We can do this." I was entirely sure now, with no doubts about it.

The sound of the pre-set alarm wails throughout the facility, waking us all up from our beloved sleep. None of us complain though, instead we move swiftly to dress and get our gear on. I wait to do that though, and walk around to assist the sleepy soldiers in getting their gear on correctly. Zippers zip, buttons snap in place, and velcro pockets filled with ammo shut with a scratch. After all the men have their gear on, I go about getting ready myself. I change out of my night clothes into a pair of sharp black combat suit pants. They fit nicely, not to tight but not to loose. Next comes a white undershirt, tucked into my pants, then a black overshirt. Even though I had my suit pants on, I would be geared in a combat uniform.

Over my black shirt went my vest, filled with ammo and supplies. I lift it over my head and onto my shoulders, feeling the burden of pockets full of magazines. I tie the strings around me tightly, as this vest holds the only thing keeping my enemy and me apart. Next, I wrap my utility belt around my waist. Grenades clink together as I tighten the straps, squeezing my waist tightly. Finally, I throw my pack over my shoulders, and grab my rifle from the bedpost. I then bend down to tie my boots, still the old beaten and battered leather combat boots that I've had since the start of the war. The laces are coated in dirt and dried mud, and the leather is scratched from weeks of hard work.

I stand up, and walk down the center of the barracks. The men report to the end of their beds, standing at attention. The rest of the officers line up at the doorway to the barracks, awaiting my orders. "Is everybody ready?" I ask. "If you're not, you'd better get ready." A few men wriggle around or bend over to tie their boots. After all men are standing at attention once again, I speak. "Alright men, in your bags are your mission forms. You each have been assigned to a company. Within those companies are squads. Each squad has been assigned a truck, at my command you will go to your assigned truck and wait. Let's go to breakfast."

Breakfast wasn't much today, as a heavy meal would spell disaster for mobile troops. We ate meals of Spam in a can, and a small ration of eggs. I quickly finished mine, and walked toward the door. "Keep the men in here for now, I'm gonna go check on our pilots." I say to an officer at the door. "Yes sir." He says between bites.

Outside, the morning crew is hard at work rigging up the planes to the winch. First up was the cropduster, or ISA One as it was codenamed. Slowly the winch dragged it up the hill, until it reached the very top. Another man then ran up and attached the slingshot cable to the rear hook, and put chocks under the wheels. "Let's get these engines going!" One of the men yells to the pilot.

The old engine sputters to life, heavy clouds of smoke escaping from the exhaust pipes. It dissipates into the sky and the engine rumbles at a low RPM, its propeller kicking up the sand around the plane. After a few minutes of running and checking for leaks, the engine is turned off. After a bit of tuning in the carburetor, they fire the engine again.

"Come in Ground control, this is ISA One performing radio check, over." "Roger that, ISA One, Ground Control copies." "10-4 Ground Control, requesting permission to launch." The radioman looks at me for approval, to which I look at the wall clock. It ticks slowly until finally reaching 9:00 am. "Go for it." I say to him. "Roger that ISA One, you have permission to launch." "Roger that ground, beginning launching process."

The engine roars at its maximum, and pulls at the winch strap. "Ready?" The pilot yells to the ground men. "Ready on you." One of them says. "Three! Two! One! Let it go!" He yells. In an instant the cable is released and the plane vaults down the beach, propelled by gravity, its own engine, and the slingshot. It tears down the beach at an alarming speed, and hits the ramp.

The wheels leave the contact with the ground, and the plane pulls up into the sky. The radio comes alive "This is ISA One, we have takeoff." Cheers from all around fill the sky,and the next plane begins its journey to the top of the hill by winch. "ISA Two to ground control, come in ground control." "Roger that ISA Two, Ground control copies." "This is ISA Two requesting permission to launch, over." "Copy that ISA Two, you have permission to launch." "Roger that, beginning launching process." Again the engine roars, and strains the winch cable holding it to the wall. This plane has more power though, and the concrete flexes with the power being presented onto it. Heaving and moaning, the winch strap releases and sends the plane down the beach and into the air. Soon after follows the rest of the fleet, until all of the planes are flying over the facility, awaiting further orders.


	12. Chapter 12

"Come in ISA One, this is Ground Control." "Roger Ground Control, this is ISA One." "ISA One you are clear to engage targets, remain below 150 feet to avoid radar detection. Ground control will cut out after 3 miles, over." "Roger that, ISA One copies all. ISA One to Air Squadron, fall in behind me then break up once we're in the mission area." "ISA Two copies." "ISA Three copies." "ISA Four copies." "ISA Five copies." "ISA Six copies."

"Roger that Ground Control, all units are accounted for, over. We are en route to mission area." "Roger that, ISA One. Be advised you are now leaving radio zone." "10-4 Ground Control, ISA One is over and out." "Ground Control is over and out."

The planes have since dotted away from my naked vision, but are still barely visible through the high powered binoculars. Even though I'd love to watch the planes all day, I've got other things to do. "All soldiers report to your assigned trucks, I repeat, all soldiers report to your assigned trucks." I say over my radio, which is linked to the facility intercom. As I walk in the front doors, I notice the hallways are now filled with the traffic of moving soldiers. They rush around with their gear clinking and clanging as they go, into the garage bay. I walk in amidst the crowd to the truck that Easy Company and I will be riding in, and find them already sitting in the back.

"Everyone good?" I ask, while climbing into the rearmost part of the bench seat. "Yes sir." Alex says. "Sir, can I ask you something?" Dickson says. "Go for it." I reply. "What do you think the casualty rate for us is?" Wow, that's not the question I was expecting. Though, I shouldn't have thought any less from Dickson. Or any of the men in the company that is. "Well," I begin. "My estimates would be around 30 to 60 percent of us. To be honest." He looks up, a bit brighter. "Better than I thought." Sherman says, while looking around at the thinning number of men looking for their trucks. "I reckoned it would've been like 90 to 99 percent of us." He continues.

"We're not bad soldiers." I say. "Our losses at the airport were only so great because we were caught by surprise. If you haven't noticed, the number of men lost here at the base is less than 15. Our odds of winning are better than you think." As I finish saying this, the red lights in the garage bay turn on, and any last stragglers find their way to their trucks. The room quiets to only a small bit of chatter, until the alarm bell rings and the garage doors open.

Engines roar to life as the sunlight beams into the dark garage. Gears grind into position, and the trucks begin to move out in lines. Our truck is second to leave, and rumbles out the door toward the main gates. The rest of the trucks file in behind us, pouring almost endlessly out of the garage. As we pass through the gates, I realize that this is the first time for many of the men to have been outside the facility walls, since the war's beginning. Perhaps even some haven't seen the light of day for weeks. Most of them stare at the floors of the trucks, hoping that when the time comes to meet the enemy, it won't be them returning to their families in a box. If that. Some of the men from the initial attack have been rumored to have been returned in bags by squads of enemy soldiers. Still, that's only speculation.

I'd like to think that I'm immune to all the frightened thoughts of the regular infantry, as I've seen more combat than almost any other soldier still alive in the ISA. But truth be told, I'm not. The frightened feeling of perhaps not returning in victory, or not returning at all, wraps me like a thick wool blanket. It encases me, but is totally invisible to the rest of the men. Am I even suited to be a leader? I push this feeling aside, and lean out the back of the truck.

We round the corner, with the front of the truck now pointed directly at the plane wreck. Since the size of the wreck would block our path, when we made it to the railroad tracks we turned and drove down them. As a side effect, the rails pass between tall hills at some points, giving us good cover from enemy spies or whistleblowers. The truck bumps and slams over the railroad ties, testing the quality of the repairs done. It stays solid, a true testament to the work done over the last 2 weeks.

"Oh dear.." Dickson says before blowing chunks out the side of the truck. "Woah buddy, you okay?" Sherman says, putting a hand on Dickson's shoulder. "Yeah man, you good?" Alex asks, peering up from his previous stupor of looking at the floor. Dickson holds himself out the side, eyes closed and mouth open ,dripping with vomit. With every bump it splashes onto his cheek, making even me feel uneasy about the ride. Feeling sorry for him, and desperate to get my mind away from hurling up my own breakfast, I take out my handkerchief and attempt to hand it to Dickson. He doesn't move, and keeps his head hung out the side. "Fine." I say.

I grab him by the back of his coat, and turn him to face me. "You're alright." I say to him, while beginning to wipe the vomit off his face. "Sorry sir." He says, eyes still closed. "Listen." I say, putting a hand under his chin. "Open your eyes." He complies, and looks at me with a sick glaze. "Youre okay. Just relax, and focus on something else. You're no good to us is you can't do anything but puke, and you're a danger to yourself. So buck up, alright?" I tell him, treating him like a child.

"Okay. Sorry sir." "No, none of that. I was saying that to you as a friend, not as your superior. As far as I'm concerned, if I was so "superior" I wouldn't be here with you right now." "Jonathan, you're a good man." Sherman says to me. "Yeah Jonathan, how do you do it?" Alex asks. "Honestly guys, it's all a bit of a ruse. Yeah I know I might have done some stuff but I wasn't any different from you when the war started. I wasn't even a Corporal." "What?" Dickson says, still obviously sick. "Well, I knew you guys wouldn't follow me out of the airport if I didn't have a sufficient enough rank, so when one of the guys mistook me for a Corporal, I just went with it." I admit to them. "So, what was your rank?" Alex asks. "Private first class." I say. "Well sir, until a few days ago, you were still our superior. So we can let this one slide." Sherman says.

We near the end of the railroad tracks, or rather the end of the part we would be traveling on, and turn off of them into the Davis Quartz quarry. We then go out of the quarry and onto the highway, taking up all six lanes of traffic, heading for the airport. The radio pipes up "All trucks beware, we've got scouts looking at us from the overpass up ahead." I lean my head out the window to see for myself, and sure enough there were three men peering over the rail at us, one of them yelling into a radio. "Hold my legs one of you." I say, while climbing out the side so much to where I'm sitting on the edge. I aim my rifle at one of them, and take a deep breath. I fire a single round into the head of the radioman, and then two more to the side of the others. "One hit, two misses sir!" The truck passenger says. "I know, that should've gotten the message through to them." "The message, sir?" The driver asks. "That we mean business." I say to him while sitting back down.

After another mile or so, more and more scouting parties begin to dot the side of the highway, now relaying our every move to the enemies central command probably somewhere in the airport. I look out the side to see the overpass full of trucks, dropping off soldiers. I quickly pick up the radio. "All trucks be advised, we have hostiles attempting to engage on the next overpass, permission to fire, but do it with accuracy."

The front row of trucks light up with gunfire as they decimate any soldiers that were on the bridge. The enemy trucks are filled with holes as the overzealous troops unload hundreds of rounds with their best accuracy. They quell the attackers before they fire a single shot. "Great job guys! Hold your fire until further directed." I say into the radio, feeling the morale raise as I say it.


	13. Chapter 13

We arrive by the hospital to a wall of enemies, prompting me to give the dismount order. I line up with the rest of the men in my section, ready to fire. I wait to give the order, and watch the advancing enemy through my gun sights. The enemy trucks keep moving up, so I take the opportunity to give the order. "Fire at will!" I yell to the men, who begin firing immediately. I do the same, and fire blindly at the advancing trucks. Our rockets fly toward them, and the explosions halt their advance. Soon after that, they begin to return the fire.

I grab my radio "Right Division, go down the road to the right! All others, lets move forward!" I begin walking, and firing. Even though I told the men to be as accurate as possible, I break the rule by firing blindly into the crowd of soldiers. A rocket flies over my head, but this one blows up somewhere behind me. I hear men scream all around me, but I still fire. "Get to cover!" I yell. "Just don't stop moving! If you stop they'll get a hold on us!" We scatter out to hide behind the buildings and trucks, fire pouring out from both sides. Our rocket men reload and fire three more shots in the enemy's direction, causing mayhem among their broken ranks. "Easy Company, with me!" I yell to the men, who are firing around the corner of a building.

"This way! C'mon!" I say, while running down an alley. Dickson, Sherman, and Alex follow close behind me, guns aimed at the rooftops. "Dickson, Alex, I want you guys in sniping positions on these roofs." I tell them. "Yes sir!" Alex says, while climbing up onto a fire escape. He turns and helps Dickson onto the walkway, then they both run up the stairs to the roof. "Fire at any enemy target!" I yell to them from the ground. They don't respond, but their gunfire starts about a minute later. "Sherman, you're with me. Let's see if we can get some fire on their flanks while the rest of the men get at their front." "Yes sir." He says.

We run up and down alleys until we reach the side of the enemy's lines. Explosions rip them apart, showing me that our mortar crews have set up already. I aim at one soldier who's not paying attention, and take him out. Sherman does the same, and we continue to eliminate targets oblivious to our presence. They catch on to us soon though, and some of them begin to fire at us. While they're distracted with us though, Dickson and Alex pick them off. More mortar fire pounds their lines, causing them to retreat.

Our lines weren't so great though, and between alleys, I see that many trucks have been disabled, and many more men are lying on the ground. We come to the end of our current alley, and are forced to retreat to the last opening. I fire and reload constantly, not letting up on them. BOOM! A mortar round hits the pavement very close to us, knocking Sherman and I off our feet. My head hits the ground hard, making the world spin around me. "Sherman..." I say, while holding my head. "You good?"

He doesn't respond with words, but instead grunts in acknowledgement of me asking. "Oh god..." I say out loud, sitting up. My head throbs and my eyes burn, forcing me to rub them with my dirty hands. "Shit, ow!" I say, realizing my mistake. "Sir, you alright?" Sherman asks while putting a hand on my shoulder. "Ah..can you get a rag out of my pack?" I ask him. He does, and I wipe the dirt out of my eyes. My vision clears, and I see the mortar crater about 70 feet from me. "It must've been closer", I thought, but the force of the explosion forced me back pretty far.

I look down at my now tattered pants and shirt, I don't see any blood, and other than the slowly fading pain in my head and ringing in my ears, I feel perfectly fine. I then turn my attention to Sherman, who had been a few feet behind me when the mortar hit the ground. He's about the same, but he didn't hit his head very hard, so he was able to stand up faster than me.

I retrieve my rifle from the ground, and stand up once again. My legs wobble at first, but I regain full balance within a few seconds. "Alright, lets put some more fire on em." I say while firing around the corner. The enemies immediate forces have been put down though, so I'm able to turn fully around the corner and fire at the men retreating from us. Sherman walks out past me, and fires his previously folded rocket launcher at one of the trucks coming in with reinforcements. It explodes in a fireball and is thrown into the air with the force of the explosion. "Excellent shot, man!" I say, then high five him. "Looks like they're pulling back." Sherman says. I nod, then pick up my radio. "All troops listen up, Right Division will be closing in behind the enemy at any minute now, so check your fire. We'll have em boxed in."

"Alright Sherman, I want you to go back and rally with Alex and Dickson, I'll wait here." "Got it." He says, then runs down the alley. I look around the corner again to see Right Division firing at the enemy from behind, cutting up whatever was left of their men.


	14. Chapter 14

BABOOM! My body lifts off, then is thrown back down by the force of an enemy hand grenade. Chips of concrete and brick fall on me. Blood trickles down my face, and my legs burn with shrapnel wounds. I writhe in pain, rolling from side to side on the hard concrete of the alley. Crumbling parts of the building next to me fall down on my right leg, causing me to scream in pain. I can't open my eyes, and my body is rocked with more and more pain every second.

"Sir!" I hear a voice say. "Jesus christ what happened?" Another one says. "He's got blood all over him, get a rag or something." A smooth cloth dabs at the hot liquid on my face, but stops abruptly. Guns fire closely above me, and the sound of clinking shells against the pavement near my ears is the only clear thing I can hear. "Where did all these fuckers come from?!" A seemingly distant voice yells. My head rocks with pain, and I lose all senses to the outside world as I pass out into unconsciousness.

I awake into a dizzy sort of reality, with men running all around me. I'm now propped up against a wall, with medical supplies scattered around the pavement all around me. Artillery shells whistle and shake the ground as they hit the blacktop, and send it flying in all directions. More shells impact the ground just before I slip back into unconsciousness.

I awake once more, this time into a fuller state of consciousness. The scene of the artillery shelling is now rather quiet, with many bodies and craters strewn all about the once normal street. I blink a few times to soothe my dry eyes, and look down at myself for any injuries. I have bandages wrapped around both my legs, lower bandaging on my right leg, and higher on my left. I also have two sticks holding my left arm in a splint, and several burn marks on my face and on both arms.

I slowly pick up my left arm to check for breakages, but find it completely fine. Wonder why they splinted it...I appear to be okay, at least in a long term way of looking at it. I manage to stand up and look around at the barren empty scene that once held a fierce battle. Craters and dead bodies lay everywhere along the road next to blown up trucks and scattered medical supplies. My clothes are mostly torn, my pant legs apparently being taken off by either a medic or an explosion reducing them to shorts, and my vest is lying next to me. My shirt is nowhere to be found so I just grab the vest and drag it behind me.

A notice a dead field medic lying strewn across a dead patient, and recognize him as the man who had been tending to my arm when the artillery strikes began. I roll him off the other soldier and check him for medical supplies. I find little more than Band-Aids and disinfectant, but I take what was left of his ammo before retrieving a rifle from another dead soldier.

For my conscience, before I leave I check every body for any signs of life. Just in case. I decide to assume that we didn't totally lose the battle, and continue walking slowly down alley ways until I hear the sound of gunfire, way off in the distance. The fire sounds very erratic, almost like whoever was firing the shots was doing so in a very last ditch manner.

Even in the back alleys there is evidence of fierce battling, with bullet holes and blood all over the small corridors between buildings. But something about these remains doesn't seem right, there are no bodies or shell casings strewn about. There are no signs of what I thought to be the remnants of battle, like discarded weapons. The only thing in these alleys was trash and more trash.

I find the end of the alleyway, and discover the source of the gore. I see rundown homes laced with pointless chain link fences and low riding cars parked out front, oblivious to the battles that were occurring elsewhere. I had somehow made it to San Andreas slums, known on the map as Strawberry. Normally this part of town is inhabited by the poorer part of the state, or at least the ones who aren't up in Blaine County living in trailers and wearing tin foil hats.

The streets are empty, which doesn't surprise me. In fact the most traffic that occurred during the war was when a civilian thought that the city had been liberated and took to the streets to celebrate. His car was shot by Eurusians not long after he started doing burnouts and drag racing down city streets. A sad story, but an informative one for the public. Not a single car was reported to have been moved since that incident.

"Hey man, what're you doin out here?" A gravely voice asks me. I whip around and aim my rifle at him, but he's beat me to it. The smooth bore of a handgun barrel glistens in the sunlight, pushed right up to my face. "Easy there man, I'm an ISA officer." I said, lowering my weapon to avoid provoking him. "I thought all of yous were dead and gone by now." He said, gun still aimed at my head. "No way, in fact right now we're...uh...nevermind." I said back to him, almost telling him about the attack. Though I can't say that it wasn't already quite obvious what we'd been up to for the last couple of weeks.

"Well I don't care. Everywhere you guys go, innocent people get shot. My cousin was murdered by a men in black punk like you, you know." His hands began to shake and his eyes filled with anger. I feared his intentions, and decided to act before something bad happened. I brought my rifle up and knocked the handgun from his grasp. Swiftly I brought the rifle back around and knocked him out with the butt of the gun. His now unconscious body crumples to the ground, so I quickly retrieve his weapon and run.

The sound of gunfire echoes around Pillbox Hill, through every street and alley alike. Desperate to get back with my men, I make a mad dash toward the sound of the battling. My lungs burn and my legs pump as hard as I can in fury to get closer to the gunfire.

Before I reach it, I find a small collection of men and trucks gathered in a


	15. Chapter 15

Before I reach it, I find a small collection of men and trucks gathered in a circle. Men on cots and stretchers lay strewn about with field medics tending to the worst of the men. I slow to a walk as I approach the gathering. "Gentlemen." I say, careful not to spook them. One of the less occupied medics speaks "Hello sir. What brings you way back here?" "It seems that my medics left me for dead back on the scene of an artillery attack." I say, voice thick with resent. "Oh.." He says, looking at his feet.

"Don't worry about it. Pretty sure that medic is dead anyways. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the fight?" I asked him. "Yes, sir. Thatta way." He says to me, pointing down the road. ""The boys are very, very close to the airport. Things are going well, sir." "Right...well I better get going then." I begin walking down the road, but before I get to far, I'm interrupted by the medic. "You can take one of these trucks, sir. We're not using them, the boys just left them behind because their not in the best shape. Keys are in the ignition." "Thank you." I say to him.

The truck is battered and beaten, not to mention full of holes. Both mirrors are missing and the canvas rear roof has been almost wholly torn off some way or another. Inside I find blood splattered on the passenger seat, and a tachometer reading a constant 1,000 RPM's. Trying to remain positive, I turn the key. It takes some effort by me, but the engine finally kicks into life with a puff of black smoke and a rattly engine. Thankfully my father taught me how to drive stick, otherwise I wouldn't be able to drive the truck.

Depressing the clutch and shifting almost smoothly into first gear, the truck begins to roll down the road. I slowly pick up speed, and move the gear shifter up and to the right, into second. As the RPM's climb once again, I bring the shifter down and slightly to the right for third gear. The RPM's climb a bit more slowly, but begin to surge as I put it into the highest gear, all the way to the right and up, into fourth. The truck is now rumbling down the empty streets and around bends, until I reach the highway entrance to the airport.

Men are scattered all around the airport, some shooting off the overpasses, some fighting for the inside, others struggling to get into the gates, and me rumbling down the road toward them. I let off of the gas pedal and attempt to downshift back into third, but find the engine ignoring me. I fully release the gas pedal, and find the engine now operating on its own, picking up more and more speed now. I try to quell the trucks fury by taking it down a gear, but the transmission won't budge. The truck screams now, thick black smoke pouring out of its smoke stack. Frantically, I turn the key to "off" but it, like everything else, does nothing. My hands struggle with the wheel as the truck screams down the highway, toward the off ramp. I blare the horn in an effort to get the men out of the way, and they quickly do.

I'm thundering towards the airport's off ramp, when something hits the truck with a thud and a clang. The engine sputters a bit from this, but continues raging down the road. As I hit the ramp, another round of the noises hit the truck, and I become aware of what they are. Some form of high caliber round is being fired at me from somewhere, and he's shooting my engine. "Holy christ!" I yell to myself as oil begins to spill out from under the hood, smearing itself all over the windshield.

I reach the bottom of the ramp, and tear down the road toward one of the airports entrance gates. "Oh crap, oh crap. Shit shit shit!" I continue yelling as I struggle to hold the truck straight. Into my vision I realize that the airport's gate is guarded with two large trucks. Both of them open fire on me as I roar toward them.

The rounds hit the truck, with pings and clanks hitting all around me. Hoping to survive, I duck down into the gap between the seat and the floor, still clinging to the steering wheel. The truck flys nearer and nearer to the gate, oil now seeping though the bullet riddled windshield, onto my head and shoulders. Finally, in one last act of craziness, the truck's large tires collide with the curb that lies ahead of the airports gate, causing me to lose control of the wheel. The truck rocks and tips onto its side, sliding into the enemy gunfire roof first. Suddenly, the truck collides with the enemies, throwing me back-first into the roof and almost knocking me out.

As the G forces stop, I drop from the roof onto the driver's door, breaking the window with my side. Bits of glass jab into my stomach and oil coats my hair and upper body, my eyes stinging from the blood running down my face. I'm coughing and moaning in pain, while outside gunfire picks up all around me, the loud sound hurting my blood filled ears. In the blur of my vision, I see the oil run down my face and begin to slowly drip off my nose. The gunfire grows louder as the outside yelling changes from Eurusian to English, I get a sliver of deja vu as everything goes black.

The room is white. Very white. My vision is blurred into blotchy looking shapes and bright overhead lights, which prove to be a little to bright for my tastes. In reaction to this new found stimuli, I attempt to raise my hand to block the small sun that was burning into my skull. But I find it tethered by something.

Looking over, my eyes refocus on the machines and tubes running around in various places next to me. A clear tube runs down my arm and into my wrist, in the big vein just below my hand. Speaking of my hand, scratches and scabs cover it along with my arm. Though I'm devoid of any oil that I thought I had on me before I blacked out.


	16. Chapter 16

Still in an almost drunken stupor, I turn my gaze to my right arm. I find my knife to be nowhere near where it was, though this arm is free of restraint of any sort. I carefully lift it and angle my hand above my face to block the intense room lights, and give my eyes time to focus. I'm aware now that my entire body is very, very sore. It just seems like there is no point on my body that doesn't ache with pain.

My pupils dilate, and the room comes into full view. It's mostly blank, side from the basic tan wallpaper and a small armchair in the corner. Directly in front of me is a wall clock, ticking away from something like 7:30 in the afternoon. Then it all hits me, the events of the previous day slam back into my memory banks and make a full deposit.

My mind goes crazy with thoughts, some too crazy to comprehend. But one sticks out from the rest, taking the mainstage in my brain and provoking my most prominent emotion. "If I'm here, does that mean we lost?" My other room at the Tribal Die labs looked nothing like this one, besides why would they bring me all the way back here?

Rage pumps thick through my blood, and my fists tighten with the thought of having to battle enemy torture doctors and escape the hellishly lit room. Reaching over, I tear the tubes from my arm and rip the wires free from my chest. After I do this, the heart rate monitor flatlines and IV fluid spills onto the ground. Knowing the flatline will alert medical staff, I look around for a weapon to make my last stand with. On top of a pile of clothes and bags, the dirty piece of leather shines and catches my attention.

I grab the sheath and pull out the knife, just in time for a woman in a green outfit to burst in the door. Upon seeing me, she screams and high tails it out, leaving the door wide open. Seeing my escape opportunity, I stumble out the door, knife held in front of my face and teeth clenched. Outside the door is a hallway, and rounding the end corner of said hallway is two large men in the same green outfits the woman was wearing. They outsize me, but I remain determined to fight to my last breath.

As they approach me, I place my feet farther apart and balance myself for the impact. In mere seconds, they're upon me, trying to grab a hold of my arms and manhandling me in the small hallway. I fight back, slashing at them and trying to move forward. I make a half circle slash and catch both of them in the arm, giving me just enough time to stumble-run down the hallway and around the corner. At the end of this hallway, which thank god is much smaller, is a set of silvery doors which I identify as an elevator.

I reach the doors and mash the up button, though I have no clue where the exit is. The doors open to reveal a brown carpeted elevator, to which I enter and glare at the mass of buttons set before me. I scan them until I come up on one labeled "Lobby", and mash it. As the doors close I fall into the elevator wall and pant for breath, hoping to make it out alive. But if there's any military personnel in this place they're sure to be headed for me right now.

After the almost nauseating elevator ride ends, I nearly collapse out the door into a dark tiled lobby complete with a desk and waiting room. Too enraged to care about this, I make a dash for the front door and ignore the scream from the secretary at the desk. Footsteps pound behind me, but my mind is set on reaching the outside, and I stick my arms at full extension into the clean glass doors.

They open with ease, and my momentum forces me to fall onto hard pavement. Still holding my knife I kick my way out the door and try to get up. But hands grab me from all around, and I try to repel them. I swing my knife and flail my body as they lift me onto my feet. "Let me go you bastards! You'll never take me so long as I have...fucking air in my lungs!" I yell at them, spit flying in all directions.

I wriggle my way free, but lose the knife in the melee. The men around me try and yell something to me, but I ignore them. Stumbling and gasping for air, my feet get tangled up in each other and I fall into the side of a parked car. This time the hands are prepared, and they restrain me to the ground with people holding down my every limb. "No! No! I won't let you take me!" I yell, practically foaming at the mouth.

Something sticks me in the arm, its contents only adding to the vomit inducing vertigo that is plaguing me now. The parking lot spins in wild loopy circles until I simply shut my eyes to keep the evil images away. Not long after, the red glare of the sun against my eyelids turns to the black darkness of anesthesia as my captors get a hold of me once again.

I swim back into consciousness once again, this time to a less intensely lit room. Whatever drugs I'm on now has made me much calmer, and seems to have rid me of any emotion. Like last time, I look about the room. It's almost exactly the same as the last room, but I notice a man sitting in the armchair to my right. Too weak to try and engage in speaking with him, I lift my arm and let it thud back onto the bed in order to get his attention.


	17. Chapter 17

"Oh! You're awake!" He says with a familiar voice. All I can really do now is look at him, having spent all my available energy on moving my arm. Though it strikes me as weird for him to have just been sitting there reading a magazine. "It's me sir, Alex!" He says. I squint my eyes at him, recognizing the face and being delighted to see a familiar face. But I still can't talk. "Don't worry about talking sir, the doctors said that you won't be able to do much of anything for a while. That truck accident you had fucked you up pretty bad. In fact..." He says, picking up a small clipboard and turning the pages over each other. "In fact, you have chemical burns on both arms, on your scalp, minor road burns on your left side and arm, pieces of glass were removed from your side, you have a minor concussion and the possibility of minor brain damage as a result of believed multiple scenes of being knocked unconscious." He says, drawing in a sharp breath after reading all of that.

Christ. It really has been quite a day. "But the good news is, we took the airport without much of a hitch. In fact, we even captured the Eurusian President who apparently had been visiting at the time. Not sure why though." He says. "w...w..uhh...nnn?" I murmur, each attempt causing major pain in my throat. "Yes sir, and try not to talk. It also says that you have damage to your throat on account of bloody oil being slow dripped into it."

"Unfortunately sir, It seems that you won't be joining us for the siege of Fort Zancudo. Don't worry though, the generals from the states have been put in charge of us for the time being, so we'll get it done." He says, a broad smile coming across his face. "We've won Jonathan. We did it."

The end...of book one...

In the days following the retaking of the airport, the ISA, United States Army and Marine forces reclaimed the military base at Fort Zancudo. At approximately 4:30 PM on June the 27th, the American and San Andreas flags were raised over the base, thus ending the war.

Jonathan Langst wouldn't get out of the infirmary in time to see the end of the war. Though he was present at the formal ceremony for the signing of the instrument of surrender four days after the wars end. His signature is on the document four times. He kept his rank throughout his career, though restructuring in the ISA's ranks would put him down a few pegs from highest in command. Shortly before his retirement, the first Commandant of the ISA was named, the person being First San Andreas War veteran Alex Hoffman. Jonathan would retire before the outbreak of the second war, in pursuit of a lifetime goal of being a professional fighter. He would later return to the ISA during the outbreak of the second war to fight, and later taught advanced hand to hand combat techniques and stylized fighting.

The men of Easy Company went on to fight at both the airport and military base, without any casualties. For their heroism Easy Company was granted full rights to be a squadron, and given the official title of "1st Ground Assault squadron, Easy Company." They would later accept another 50 members into what the public called "The ISA elites."

In all, the war lasted a grand total of twenty three days. With over 2,000 ISA troops and 126 civilians killed, it is one of the most deadly conflicts in such a short period of time. A total of 78 billion dollars in damages were done to San Andreas, with 483 military units destroyed, 290 civilian vehicles destroyed, 14 buildings leveled, and over 1,000 craters left in the San Andreas soil and pavement.

Tribal Die would begin to make vehicles and products of all kinds, thus boosting the needy San Andreas economy and generating hundreds of jobs, leading to more people immigrating to San Andreas from far off lands like the U.S, Mexico, Europe, Eurusia, Calrisia, parts of Asia, and India. New products like high quality steel began to roll off production lines, brand new cars began to drive from Tribal Die factories to the nearby port for exporting, paint and other various chemicals began to pour from factories, and new technology from Tribal Die labs began to sell to tech companies for millions and billions of dollars.

Even ships began construction in the brand new San Andreas Naval Shipyard, which was expanded to house the ISA's new Naval fleet. Of course Tribal Die was the builder of such ships, handing over the responsibility to the branch known as San Andreas Ship building. New companies began sprouting up to make clean air solutions to the now very polluted San Andreas skyline. Renowned companies like Apple and Microsoft began contracting Tribal Die for technical research, and big oil companies like Shell and Chevron began requesting drilling rights for San Andreas' oil rich shale. Though, the San Andreas government would deny them the right to drill for oil within its borders or inside its 18 mile around oceanic territory.

After the war, the United States government declared San Andreas a territory, having revoked its statehood that lasted over 70 years. The ISA would rebuild and recruit more men than it ever had in the past, with training becoming the focus of an entire branch of the ISA. This new training helped shape the modern ISA into an army on the same scale as the superpowers. New planes and vehicles were built by Tribal Die for the military, and in 2016 San Andreas would launch the first ship of its Navy. Subsequently this new ship would bring about the deadliest conflict in the history of San Andreas, Eurusia and Calrisia alike. And the men and women of the ISA would be the frontline fighters of this new war, bringing the fight to the enemy for the first time in San Andreas history.


	18. Chapter 18

**Well thats it ladies and gentlemen. Hope you enjoyed it, because I definetly enjoyed writing it for you. If you liked it, drop me a review down below. Hopefully in a few months I can have the second one out for you guys, though I cant be sure. Just know that the second story is much much better, and just overall better written. In the meantime I plan to have some new stuff out for you guys to help pass the time and to give you a chance to better know the characters. Thanks for reading and stay in touch with this story for other updates on more story material.**

 **-Wedgininja06**


	19. Update and questionnaire

I know this story is underwhelming, really I do. Writers block is something I struggle with very often, and I wish I had someone to help me piece the story together where I simply cannot. I, as promised, have completed most of the story of the "Second San Andreas War." However, there is some holes in the plot that I have a hard time filling. Battle scenes mostly. I'd like to know, from anyone that happens to drop by and give this shitty story a once over, if you'd be interested in a revision to the first story, and a sequel (eventually). I have a lot of work done on building the world around this story, and multiple revisions to both the First and Second War stories. I eagerly await some feedback, and if you'd like to send something to me, you can either put it in the review section, or you can email me directly at rdshillinger Please title your email with "Story Feedback" and be sure to leave your name at the bottom of the email. Don't hold back on me, but don't get carried away in telling me that the first story sucks. I know it sucks. It sucks bad, and I'm ashamed that I even put it up. Still, I wanted to see how the reception was for this topic. So, get back to me, and maybe together we can make this story a reality.

All the best,

Ryan

p.s- if there is any writers out there that would be interested in helping me along the way with this story, I'd be happy to hear your opinion, and maybe we can work together on this seemingly infinite project of mine. Thanks again.


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